“Why would you say that, Ed?” Mother Twinkle asks. She sits up straight and closer to the table, her soft voice now within the old man’s limited earshot. “These things happen between young couples.”
“Cut the horseshit,” Electric Ed grumbles.
“It’s just so unfortunate for Brackton,” Maisie says.
“Oh, you think so?” Hank the mechanic bellows. “You think being the laughingstock of the county—of the state—is a bit of an inconvenience? You’re damn right it is.”
“I don’t know why you’re so bent out of shape, Hank. Didn’t affect you in any way. I didn’t see your name on the list of vendors,” DJ Rich Rinaldi says.
“What was I supposed to contribute? A lube job?”
“If someone needed it,” Rich tells him.
“I can try to sell the dresses,” Fran Costantino says, trying to hide her disappointment. “It’ll be hard—the sizes are small and there’s no room for more alterations. I can put them on eBay or Craigslist.”
“I haven’t baked the cakes yet, but I did give up two other wedding requests from other towns,” Lisa Anderson laments.
“Well, that only shows how much the contest was working,” Mother Twinkle pipes in. “All that advertising has brought new business to Brackton.”
“All that advertising we paid good money for, Little Miss Sunshine.”
“Hank, I’m going to ask you to speak respectfully, at least while you’re in these meetings,” Danni admonishes.
Some agree with Hank, while others can’t deny that the contest has created a certain amount of notoriety in northern Vermont.
“It’s brought many of us who were lagging behind into the twentyfirst century. I know I’ve learned a lot about the Internet and using it to my benefit,” jeweler Raphael O’Leary says.
“I agree,” Danni says.
“I just mailed the invitations to Ryan two days ago,” Annie Chalis says. “And the printer did me the favor of a rush job.”
“He’ll never know they weren’t used,” Danni tells her.
“What about you, Mark, and you too, Terry?” Maisie Billings asks the owners of the Daffodil House and the Brackton Inn. “You two had the most to lose—a whole other affair you could have held that weekend. And the food! Can you cancel the orders?”
“Too late for that. Look, as we say on Wall Street, that’s business,” Mark says. “We’ll donate it somewhere. It was a good idea, Eric. Maybe we just selected the wrong couple. Maybe it’s all our faults.”
“I didn’t want them,” Hank says, picking his greasy fingernails.
“Only when you thought they were gay,” Rich Rinaldi reminds him.
“Can we get another couple at this late date?” Maisie asks.
Eric has remained silent, eyes closed, slouched against the back of the slatted oak chair, his head dangling onto his chest, looking as though it might fall off. “We can try,” he says dully, as he comes to life like a collapsible doll whose strings have been tightened.
“How do you figure?”
“There might be a couple who didn’t get married because they couldn’t afford it. Or maybe they got married in a city hall and would love to follow up with a big party, even do the ceremony over. Worst case scenario, not as many people as they might have liked can make it.”
“I’ll contact the runners-up tonight,” Danni says, shuffling through her papers, searching for her list.
“Don’t make us look hard up,” Hank tells her.
“Do what you have to do,” Eric advises.
“You better hope she’s a size six,” Maisie tells Fran.
Fran laughs, already energized with a bit of hope. “I’ve got some dresses from last season I’m dying to get rid of.”
“Before I ask for someone to make a motion to adjourn, I have an announcement to make.,” Danni says. “I’m resigning from the Chamber.”
“Starting when?” Fran asks, as surprised as the others.
“Right now.”
“Are you kidding me?” Hank says with a cold stare.
“Young people don’t know nothing ’bout commitment,” Electric Ed whines.
“Because of your accident? It’s completely understandable,” Maisie says.
“In part,” Danni explains. “I’m far from ninety percent, and everything takes a lot more time and effort. And there’s the Fourth of July parade and picnic, and then the Fall Festival bazaar, the Children’s Halloween Rag Shag and Pumpkin Party, and the leaf peepers’ events to get ready for. I’m just a bit overwhelmed and limited at the moment.”
“Stands to reason, sweetie. Don’t know how you even made it here tonight,” Mother Twinkle says.
“I guess that keeps you acting chair, Mr. VP,” Hank says to Eric.
“You know, I feel I’ve got a bit of conflict of interest here at the moment. Annie, you’re treasurer, think you can be chair until someone else comes forward and we take a formal vote. Just to get us through this quarter?”
“Oh, Eric, summer is really my busy time, in addition to Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day.”
“How about you, Lisa?”
“I’m swamped this time of year too.”
“I’ll do it. Tax season is over.” Accountant Rob Burns is itching to take command.
“Just for this quarter, Rob.” Eric knows full well that once Rob gets hold of the reins, he won’t let go.
“I’ll fill you in on the particulars after the meeting, Rob, if you can stay. Otherwise we’ll make a date,” Danni tells him.
Rob smiles. He doesn’t think for a second he needs to be brought up to speed.
“Wait! What about the runners-up, Danni?” Fran asks. They all nod as though they haven’t lost track of this minor detail.
“I don’t mind getting in touch with them later. Technically my term won’t end until midnight.”
“Take your time,” Hank says with newfound empathy.
“You take your time, young lady,” Rob Burns echoes louder.
“Today, tomorrow, I don’t think anyone minds,” Hank says. “You’ve worked hard on this. You should be the one to follow up with these folks and take it to the finish line.”
Hank is glad Eric has recused himself. He’s always wanted him out of the picture. And that’s just fine with Eric.
They all assent, not wanting to pass up Hank’s unusually considerate posturing. Danni calls for a motion to elect Rob acting president and for her to continue as liaison to the new couple; Eric makes the motion; Terry Stewart seconds; there’s a resounding aye. No further business. Meeting adjourned.
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell me you were stepping down?” Eric asks after everyone has left.
He picks up her large black tote bag filled with papers, a looseleaf binder with all the agendas and minutes from the past two years, and the Chamber’s bylaws she is never without at meetings, while she adjusts her crutches under her armpits.
“Honestly, I wasn’t considering it until today. I hate to admit it, but it’s too much now, Eric, I won’t be able to do justice to it all—and to everyone. I would have liked you to take over, but I understand why you don’t want to. By the way, thank you for the meals and the roses and the cupcakes you brought over.”
“I was going for the sunflowers but Annie said you like roses.”
“Annie always pushes roses.”
“Recovery’s made you snarky.”
“I don’t mean because they’re expensive. Annie just likes roses.”
“It’s okay to be snarky. Basic bitch suits you just fine.”
“Oh, Eric,” she says, blushing, the old Danni apparent. “The color of the roses you sent over last week was so unusual—my favorite shade of pink.”
“You think we’ll really be able to get another couple?”
“We can try.”
He’s taken the Subaru because it’s easier for her to get into and out of. He settles her in the passenger seat and throws her crutches into the back, for
once grateful for the Pollyanna personality that manages to lift his spirits an inch and make him optimistic that she might have something up her little puffed sleeve.
Chapter 29
Saturday, June 27
THE NEW COUPLE has followed the plans set in place for Ryan and Jason, from the gowns that Danni mailed to the bride down to the favors, with the exception of the ceremony that will be held at the Congregational church instead of St. Anne’s. The rings were resized as were the tuxes, and delivered to the Daffodil House. No need for a rehearsal dinner; the small bridal party will be briefed the morning of the wedding. The responses from the late-date e-vites sent out by the pair reduced the guest list to seventy-six, which thanks to Danni’s promptings includes her family and close friends along with members of the Chamber who were encouraged to attend for appearances sake and in support of the vendors who had contributed. Danni especially wanted Michael and Becca to come: Becca had been so kind as to make house calls and give her massages during her recovery, and Michael, she assured Eric, would ease Eric’s anxiety.
At their final Chamber meeting before the wedding, Danni told the members that everything had been handled via long distance since there hadn’t been time for a visit. “The new couple is thrilled,” she assured them.
“Aren’t you even going to tell us their names?” Lisa Anderson had asked.
“After the commotion that caused last time, let’s not even go there.”
She was getting so smart, Eric thought. Everyone had laughed at the comment. She had learned how to put them all at ease.
“It suffices to say they’re on board and very pleased and grateful and looking forward to their dream wedding.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Hank assured her.
“Get this damn thing over with,” Electric Ed roared.
* * *
Eric lays his charcoal gray suit—his only suit—white shirt and red and navy striped tie on his bed; there is nothing more for him to do for the wedding scheduled to take place at 4 p.m. but show up.
His mother and Bicycle Girl eat breakfast on the screened in porch: waffles that he prepared with wild blueberries grown in their yard. Facing the morning sun in a T-shirt and jeans, he is barefoot, feet free from being cooped up for too many months in thick thermal sox and laced up boots, every pore of his body happy to breathe. At last he understands his mother’s enthusiasm for spring cleaning, for opening every window, vacuuming spider webs beneath the chairs and sofas, for sweeping away sticky silky threads hanging from the ceiling, that have suddenly become apparent in the new stream of sunlight. Wash the curtains that smell and feel like dust. Scrub the pine floors where dirt not confined to the mudroom has been tracked in all winter and ground into the grain. Let the house breathe too.
That’s what he’s been doing for her for weeks—under her supervision and probably not enough to her satisfaction, but willingly nevertheless. That’s how he intends to pass the day. But for now, he succumbs to freeing the cobwebs of his mind. He takes in his mother’s smile and enthusiasm for her backyard: the pink and white peonies she transplanted from her mother’s garden years ago—their heavy blooms like freakish heads too big for their necks—and the purple cone shaped lupine whose name he hates hearing his mother utter because it sounds like another disease. The border of lily of the valley and buttercups around the porch needs to be weeded before the clover overtakes them. She’s been enjoying a good stretch, with more energy than she’s shown in recent months, more appetite, more of the signs that, he’d been told, often signal an imminent decline.
He takes it all in this morning: her laugh, her eyes and teeth yellowed from drugs, her enthusiasm, her delight in watching Bicycle Girl slowly and methodically eat her breakfast, like a robot with dying batteries, eyes fixed on the edge of her plate or whatever it is she sees. And he wonders if he’s loved his mother more than he loved his father, or if his feelings for her are the result of a longer time spent together and a greater dependency on each other. Both demanded of him more than they ever would have wanted, and he has come to appreciate that. But what is a life without demands placed on you by others? A life without love?
He picks up his camera.
“Oh, Eric, not now. Look at me. I’m not even dressed!” Marie Boulanger cries, trying to wave him off as he snaps away, zooming in on the fragile complexion and the once blond head now topped off with the turban that makes her look as though she’s luxuriating at a spa; zooming out to capture the red plaid pajama bottoms peeking out of her white terrycloth robe that has fallen open at the waist. He clicks away as she brings a forkful of waffle to her mouth, her other bony hand cupped under her chin to catch the dripping syrup. He wants to capture her while she still cares about her appearance—about everything.
“You be careful,” she tells Bicycle Girl as the young woman abruptly gets up from the table and sets off for her day on wheels. No smile returned. No words of thank you. No hint at when she will return. But she always does. Sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for dinner. Even on the nights when his mother sends him out to search for her, he knows a reconnaissance isn’t necessary, that Bicycle Girl will show up sooner or later, either at their house or her father’s, up on the ridge.
Marie had intended to go to the wedding; after all, it’s her baby’s project. However, when 3:30 rolls around and Eric checks to see if she needs help getting ready, he finds her lying on her bed. She was too ambitious today and overdid it—puttering around in the garden planting herbs, cleaning out the fridge, and feeling so damned good doing it. He’ll look in on her from time to time, he says. No need, she tells him. He sets her up with a pitcher of ice water, her pills, and some buttered rye toast she’s been craving which he cuts up in bite-sized squares as though for a toddler, so she doesn’t fill up too fast and get sick. When he pops in later despite her protests, he’ll heat up a slice of leftover quiche he bought yesterday.
He showers and shaves, parts the hair he has been growing out, dresses, sprays himself with cologne, and heads over in his pickup to the Congregational Church at the Brackton-Peterbury town line. He had asked Danni if she wanted him to pick her up, but she said she was going with her parents. The new couple has gotten a beautiful day for their wedding; one thing to check off the list of what could go wrong, or, if he were more like Danni, what has gone right.
* * *
There’s a decent crowd pouring into the church. There being no ushers or groomsmen to direct foot traffic, Eric hesitates in the vestibule, contemplating where to sit. He realizes that it doesn’t matter which side of the aisle he chooses, since he doesn’t know the bride or the groom. The seating appears lopsided with the majority of guests on the left, and so he turns right, taking a seat in the last row, where he’ll be able to scan the church for all those in attendance.
He sees Maisie and a date, and Fran and her mother diagonally across the aisle from him. Mother Twinkle is behind them, her long white hair flowing over a glittery gold shawl. Like Eric, rivals Lisa Anderson and Annie Chalis, who have just entered the church together, take pity on whoever is represented by the right and sit in front of Eric. Cary Clarkson is there, undoubtedly hoping to sell the newly married couple, or one of their guests, a country home.
With two cameras hanging around her neck, Sarah Bentley photographs the alter flanked with giant pots of wildflowers. She faces the congregation and clicks away. Good move on her part to capture all the guests in one take, a shot most photographers overlook because they’re concentrating too much on the couple.
Eric thought Mark Goldman would show, but then again, he and his wife must be busy overseeing preparations for the reception, and Richard Rinaldi will be setting up his DJ equipment. He hasn’t spotted Danni yet either: He should have offered to pick her parents up along with her, and he worries that she’s fallen or that her father’s had another heart attack. He identifies the back of Chair Rob Burns—his wife to his left and a younger woman to his right—smack up there in the second row
front (no surprise) of the crowded left side. And lo and behold, even cantankerous Hank has shown up. Michael and Becca slide in beside Eric just in time to hear the organist give the notes for all to rise.
The traditional wedding march does not follow, but a sloweddown version of what Eric swears is Stevie Wonder’s You Are the Sunshine of My Life. With no maid of honor or bridesmaid, the procession is headed by a beautiful woman with raven upswept hair and delicate features in a pinkish wedding gown and carrying a bouquet of pink and white roses. Her arms are linked to those of an older couple—he in a tux, she in a long beige dress—who beam with unmistakable parental pride. Eric feels a nagging familiarity about this bride and wonders if Danni has picked a local out of that puffed sleeve of hers. The eyes of the congregation follow her, heads turning toward the altar where the smiling minister, Margaret Jeffreys, stands with an open notebook in her palms but where there is still no groom or best man. Not really that strange: Eric has attended several weddings where the groom and his parents also walked down the aisle, or the groom strolled down solo, but usually they process in before the bride.
It’s at this moment that Eric gets a full-face view of the broadly grinning woman with the unmistakable wild copper hair concealed in a bun who is standing alongside Rob Burns. As she anticipates the bride’s approach, he makes the connection. Beneath all the makeup and changed hair color, the bride, now being kissed on each cheek by her parents, whom Reverend Jeffreys directs to stand to the right, is Tiffany, the formerly green-haired roommate of Ryan Toscano. As he leans over to enlighten Michael, the crowd takes the minister’s lead and returns its gaze to the back of the church, where, to the amazement of some, in hobbles Danni, sheathed in full-length shimmering champagne, supported by crutches and on either side by Molly and George Pritchard.
Lisa and Annie question Eric with raised eyebrows.
“Who knew?” he says with a shrug.
“My oh my.” Michael seals his surprise with a grin.
A Day in June Page 24